My Strong Right Arm
by reginavictoria
Summary: Watson finds himself alone and fearful in the midst of the Great War.
1. Chapter 1

_Short little thing that I couldn't resist posting. It will continue. Reviews appreciated._

* * *

The situation is eerily familiar, much like a half-forgotten, recurring nightmare.

I sit quietly in the solitude of my tent, writing by the dim light of a kerosene lamp. In the distance—perhaps closer—I hear the roar of shells and gunshots.

Distinctions between my past and present seem to blur together. The only factor that reminds me of their separation is the cold, so unlike the heat and stench of Afghanistan.

I never am certain if my most recent journal entry will be my last. Soon there will be a mass of torn, bleeding bodies outside, all requiring my attention. As I rush out into the shellfire, I could, quite simply and matter of fact, be killed.

I have grown to despise myself these past few weeks because of this. In sad admiration I have watched them deliberately crawl out of their trenches and advance towards the enemy, never ceasing even at the sight of their comrades' bodies all around them. I look into their eyes as they press my hands, asking me to bid a mother, father, wife, or sweetheart goodbye for them. I do my best to save them; often it is not enough.

Yet, still, when I walk out from my quarters, I always tremble in mortal fear for my own safety.

Vividly I remember the day I decided to join. My ever stern colleague spoke with me. "Dr. Watson, you have already served your country well once. No one will think the worse of you if you choose to stay; after all many are going already. Civilian doctors are still needed as well."

I could not logically argue with him. I could only think of my young nephew and his bright, eager face after signing up, unaware of the horrors that awaited him on the battlefield, and of the thousands of men like him. And then, of myself, comfortably and conveniently safe in Kensington, nursing my old wounds as "the Hun's" airplanes swarmed over London.

Death would not be such a formidable prospect as it once was, I reassured myself. Mary was gone, my money and property could easily be divested of. There was Holmes, of course, but, as he too was in harm's way, there was no guarantee, even of his survival.

Yet here I was, flinching, ducking, and shaking with horror at the explosion of every bomb.

As my eyes wander around my sparse quarters, they fall for the umpteenth time on the two photographs I have clumsily attached to the wall. One is of my Mary alone, the other of us, taken on our wedding day, with family and friends.

I cannot help glancing and smiling again at my wife's radiantly beautiful smile. Dear, dear Mary.

My eyes then shift to the second photograph; to the tall figure standing behind me. His solemn face stared into the camera, the keen vivacity of his eyes relieving the severity of his composed expression.

_He _wouldn't be afraid, I knew. For I was always brave when I was with him. Death, mystery, the grotesque ... all these elements we braved together. There was a reassuring strength about him that he never lost, even in the most fearful situations.

It had been months since I had heard from him. It was likely that this was due to confidentiality. It was also just as likely that he was dead. Or perhaps captured by the enemy, as valuable as he is to the Allies...

Just now a grenade comes too close for comfort, bringing dust down from the ceiling of my makeshift quarters. Rapidly I duck. After some minutes I rise to my feet and heave a deep sigh that expresses only a fraction of what I feel this evening. Again I stare at Holmes' solemn face.

"God be with you, my dear fellow."


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you stonegnome1 and aragonite for pointing out such a terrible error in the last chapter. Corrections have been made. While my knowledge of history is limited, I do at least know enough about the stories to know that Watson was not in the Boer War! Obviously I am not the greatest proofreader... Thanks everybody for the reviews._

* * *

I could not resist paying him a visit during my last, brief stay in London two months ago. All the same, I had questioned the wisdom of my decision as I walked down the long, blank corridor, escorted by some bureaucratic official or another to Mycroft Holmes' spacious office.

"Dr. Watson. An unexpected pleasure. Please sit down." His portly frame shifted a bit uneasily in the large oaken chair.

"It was most kind of you to receive me just now. I'm aware you're occupied with far more important matters."

"Not so occupied as to ignore my brother's most faithful friend. Cigar?"

"No, thank you."

Quietly he folded his hands on the desk.

"What can I do for you, doctor?"

His eyes told me that he had deduced my purpose before I had arrived.

"Just one thing. I wished to inquire about Holmes."

Mycroft heaved his incomprable sigh.

"You know, doctor, very well, that I—none of us, in fact ,are in a position to divulge such confidential information…yes, even to such a loyal , trustworthy friend and patriot as you, such information cannot and should not be divulged to anyone outside the Foreign Office. Lives depend upon our secrecy..."

I failed to hear the rest as his words came forth in the monotone directive of a repetitious military order.

"You do understand, I hope?"

I nodded my head resignedly, and turned my gaze towards the window.

"Of course. Only, it has been so long since I last heard from him; not since that incident involving the Baron. I feared that perhaps…" I trailed off. He conveniently averted his eyes to the floor as I deliberately stared at him, desperately trying to read any trace of news in his expressionless face.

"I needn't ask if he is in danger, I know; undoubtedly that is given. But tell me, is he alive and well?"

"I am not—" He began in his monotone.

I raised my hand in protest.

"I am not asking where, or what he is doing. I am asking _how_ he is doing. Surely a simple yes or no will not bring about the defeat of Britannia??"

"Is he alive and well?" I repeated.

Mycroft shifted uneasily and sighed yet again. This time it was followed by a murmured sentence:

"He is alive and well, to the best of my knowledge..."

It was my turn to exhale deeply.

"Thank you. That was all. Now I must go."

"One minute, doctor. You are leaving for the front tomorrow, are you not?"

"I am. Why do you ask?"

"I have influence, as you know. It is entirely possible for me to arrange an assignment for you that is less strenuous and dangerous."

My jaw tightened slightly.

"I volunteered."

Mycroft nodded.

"Of course. Holmes told me it would be so. All the same, he instructed me to try and do anything for you that I could."

A slight prick of guilt surfaced within me.

"Thank you, Mycroft. I am not unappreciative, you understand, simply--" I trailed off.

"Yes; quite." He smiled, not unkindly. "Well, God speed, Doctor. If there is anything within my power that I may do for you, you have just to say the word."

"There is one thing." He raised his eyebrows as I continued. "If anything happens to Holmes, will you let me know?"

His hesitation was painfully apparent.

"Even if he is..."

"Even if he is dead. I would want to know. I abhor being kept in the dark. Please, a simple message, a wire, anything."

"I would have been easier, too, you know, if you could have went with him. There is much strength in your partnership." He sighed , this time contemplatively, than met my gaze. "Yes, doctor. I promise. Should anything change, you will know immediately."

***

I remember his words now, this gray morning, as I open the telegram with trembling fingers. I force myself to look at the message printed inside.

MISSING. NO WORD YET.

MH


	3. Chapter 3

It had been longer than I could recall since I had seen the sunshine, and even if I had during these past few weeks of gloomy and drizzling weather, I would have had little inclination to observe and appreciate it . Now I leisurely noted its rays streaming down with pleasant warmth on the meadow's green grass, permeating the unsullied air.

I pulled out a cigar for a much needed smoke, taking solace in the quiet atmosphere. Contentedly I watched the smoke curl up and mingle with the sunlight. It was then I perceived that a faint noise had disturbed the soothing silence.

I stood quietly, not daring to move a muscle, listening to the sound grow louder and louder, until I was aware exactly what it was-- the beating of drums.

When I had last turned my head I became aware that an entire band of soldiers was but a short distance away, forming a perfect semicircle around me. My heart sank with terror as I observed the headdresses and uniforms that betrayed their allegiance.

For a while I stood contemplating them. Yet, not one pair of their eyes were looking in my direction, nor for the space of a few minutes had any one them of indicated they were aware of my presence. I drew forward to investigate in a state of bewilderment.

It was then that I discovered it was not me they had formed the semicircle around, but a tall man, his hands tied behind him, dressed in Turkish fashion--undoubtedly a prisoner. And, with perfect calmness that prisoner turned his head, slightly squinting in the sunlight, and addressed me with a smile and one of the most familiar of voices.

"Hello, Watson."

"Holmes!" With no thought to the semicircle of armed soldiers I ran to him.

He was cheerful, and much the same way as when I had last seen him. A few streaks of gray in his thinning hair; still leaner and more sinewy than ever. His pleased expression upon sighting me seemed to eradicate any need for words.

Then, after these happy thoughts came a terrible one. It suddenly occurred to me, that this was wrong--terribly wrong. Holmes was a prisoner, and the semicircle before me was a firing squad.

He read my thoughts, as my eyes stared with blank, still uncomprehensive horror at the ready stance of the soldiers before us.

"It's all right, Watson."

"But you'll be... executed..."

"Perhaps. It had to end some way."

"I can't bear to watch it!!"

"Be easy now. It isn't the end, you know." He smiled. "Promise me you won't let it trouble you too much, will you, old fellow?"

A wave of some strange reassurance swept over me after this little exhange, so characteristic of him. His commanding expression stared at me earnestly; I nodded.

He backed away; I did the same.

Blankly I watched him draw toward the center of the little meadow in front of the semicircle. The men knelt to take their positions, and Holmes straightened. Reality dawned again, even more poignantly this time as I realized that my friend was bound and helpless before a firing squad.

I flailed my arms wildly and tried to run back to him, as the shots rang out in unison...

In one of my hands I discovered I am held a tightly twisted corner of my blanket. I used it to wipe off the cold weat that streamed down my face.

"Doctor? Are you all right?"

I opened my eyes to discover a very concerned orderly hovering above me. It took some moments for me to rediscover the use of my tongue.

"Yes... Hawkins... fine."

"Nightmare,was it? Well, most of us have 'em these days." He stared at me contemplatively.

"I suppose you didn't hear the news earlier, about our orders?"

"What are they ?"

He sighed and pushed his cap farther above his forehead.

"We're to advance tomorrow morning."

I reclined back in my bed.

"You don't seem very taken aback, sir."

I exhaled.

"I suppose I'm not. " I replied, my eyes returning, as always, to the two photographs. I painfully arose and took them down with a sigh that was neither sorrowful nor anxious.

I was ready for anything that came my way in the morning, I knew. Perhaps even the joy of being reunited with them sooner or later. Who knows?


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks for the reviews, everyone!_

* * *

And so it began.

Mentally, I had prepared myself long ago; but reality is, quite unfortunately, an different matter.

That morning the first wounded straggled in to the makeshift hospital. Slowly at first; a mere trickle of the injured; a shattered arm here; a bullet wound there. Then the trickle grew into the dreaded waterfall. I complimented myself on keeping a cool head under the circumstances.

I discontinued the compliments when Hawkins was rushed in on a stretcher, nearly unconscious.

The damage to his lungs and abdomen were formidable on first glance, and on farther inspection, hopeless.

There were others that needed my attention; I knew that. All the same I took a moment to few moments to squeeze his hand tightly.

He was young; as nearly all of them; young enough to be my son. Yet he was different from the others; his face, though youthful, bore markedly serious lines; and his mouth perpetually assumed a unique matter-of-fact expression. His cynicism, so uncharacteristic of a young man, often made me wonder about his past; it could not have been overjoyful.

Nevertheless he was the only associate I had permitted myself to become close to in the past few months. His stoicism and seemingless endless supply of sarcasm had somehow reassured me all these weary weeks past, had made the time pass a little more quickly. And now, in return, I could only remember these things and observe the inevitable take place--for he could not live long.

"This is it, doctor..."

He grimaced twice while bidding his farewell to me; oddly enough this did not disturb me half so much as did the smile--the impish, grin he gave me towards the last.

I could only painfully force a last smile back and squeeze his hand tighter. Then I gently drew the sheet over him and proceeded to attend to those who now required my assistance more.

I worked quickly, precisely, among the hurry, noise and confusion. Yet even this was not enough to erase the memory of that last smile from my mind. Its character had reminded me of another one.

It was Holmes' smile I had remembered when looking into the dying young man's face. Holmes as he had appeared even in the most hopeless of situations, in the manner he had stood at the edge of Reichenbach, and probably in the manner in which he had died. That knowing, ironic smile, refusing to be conquered by tragedy...

An ear shattering noise crashed just now in the cramped quarters, bringing everyone to their knees.

I gasped for air through the smoke and tried to rise. A sharp stab of pain in my leg reassured me that was not the best course of action. I fell again, in unison with another such ear-shattering explosion and the sound of screams.


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter probably wasn't what you were expecting. It will make more sense later on (hopefully). _

_I must warn you that the succeeding update is going to be somewhat dark... _

* * *

I awoke to complete, perfect silence. Silence, so pleasant to me after the disconcerting noise and confusion of the battlefield that I was reluctant to arise and destroy it. For several moments I chose to remain in the pleasant stupor of half sleep, and leave my eyes as they were, shut.

After some time of this, I realized all was not quite right--my head was very comfortably pillowed on something, something distinctly different from the cold, hard ground on which I had fell. With the one hand that was not underneath me I began to feel, exploring the object. It was fabric: smooth fabric, pleasant to the touch, and made a barely audible, brisk sound when I ran it between my fingers.

Gradually my heart began to beat faster--both in confusion and in the excitement that a memory brought me. The material I was feeling was not unfamiliar; it was much like Mary's blue taffeta dress; the full skirted one that suited her so well. It had always been among my favorite of her wardrobe; consequently, she wore it often on our outings together. I distinctly remembered taking it out of the drawer just before I left Kensington, savoring the feel of it...

In addition to all this, as some sort of odd harbinger, I noted that a faint, lemony odor pleasantly pervaded the air, one that I attempted to identify as lemon verbena.

But this was ridiculous. Taffeta and lemon verbena on a battlefield? Practicality dictated that I open my eyes.

I did so, and in addition raised my head effortlessly, with no pain nor stiffness.

And there, before me, was Mary.

She was reclining in the grass, wearing the said dress of blue taffeta, the skirt of which my head had apparently been pillowed on.

"John, dear..." Pleasant, light, unrestrained laughter filled my ears in response to my indescribable stare. We embraced such as I will never forget.

"But how, my dearest?" I buried my face again in her shoulder for another embrace.

"We're together again, as I told you we would be."

"I doubted it many times..." I said, taking a moment to glimpse our surroundings. We were in a green, grassy area by a creek, the landscape of which was very similar to my boyhood home.

Foolish tears began to pour down my face.

"John, my dear, there should be no tears..." She softly stroked my hair. "What will Mr. Holmes think, when he comes?" She added with a faint smile.

"Holmes? Here ?"

"Yes. He is coming for tea."

"For tea?" I echoed stupidly. The thought of Holmes joining Mary and myself for tea on the grass in contrast to the gravity of my previous situation suddenly struck me as hopelessly absurd--I began to laugh.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!"

When I had finished laughing, and glanced in front of me, he stood before the two of us, violin case in hand.

"Mrs. Watson." He inclined his head respectfully in my wife's direction. "Watson." He looked at me.

"Holmes! Holmes! Isn't it wonderful? Mary is here, alive and well, and now you! You're looking splendid, dear fellow!" For he was, in truth, looking well, much like I had remembered him upon our first meeting in the laboratory.

He, in answer, merely smiled--and then, only faintly. Yet for the time being I chose to ignore this; there was so much more to consider.

"You brought your instrument, Mr. Holmes! How fortunate. Please, play us something... Mendelssohn, perhaps." My wife broke the silence.

Without a word my friend took out his violin. I watched in fascination, as I always had, as he drew the bow across the strings of his instrument.

And, as always, his playing, calmed and soothed me. Yet,when he had finished, his own brow was as troubled and furrowed as it had been before.

"Holmes?" I murmured. "Whatever is the matter?"

It was then that I noticed Mary was gone.

"Holmes?" I questioned, bordering on panic, noting my friend's sorrowful, pained expression. He drew closer and gently grasped my shoulder, bending forward.

"Don't leave me, old fellow."

"Leave you!? Why should I?" Quickly the situation had become surreal and bewildering. When he at last spoke the words came out quiet and strained, uncharacteristic of the smooth eloquence I was accustomed to hearing from him.

"Before, you see... in my younger years, even before the war, I might have managed to do without you, painful and unpleasant though it would have been. I am not one to exaggerate, as you know, but now... Now, Watson, I think I could not bear your leaving.

"It's a selfish request, I grant you; one that perhaps I have no right to make. Nevertheless, I must ask it of you. Don't leave me."


	6. Chapter 6

_I was sorely tempted to alter these last few chapters, to write a safe, happy ending where everything's pretty much ok. But, as much as I would have liked to, I know it just wouldn't have had the impact. After all, life doesn't always turn out OK... and Holmes and Watson are just too real for me to pretend that nothing can happen to them. _

_However, I'm not a pessimist either, so the endiing will not be quite as dark as this._

* * *

"Watson?"

A blurred image gradually began to form before my half-closed eyes. Nevertheless I had recognized the voice long before.

"Is it really you?" I murmured.

"Yes, yes, dear fellow, really me." He gave the warmest of smiles and grasped my hand with such firmness and that for the moment, I could no longer doubt.

Littlle by little my dream--for I now realized that it had been a dream-- left me. I became vaguely conscious of sharp pain in my abdomen, and a dull, aching throb in my head.

At last I opened my eyes fully to meet those of Holmes. Yes, this was reality, I observed. His hair, in contrast to my dream, was almost entirely silver; his face pale and drawn.

I struggled vainly through my tangled thoughts to remember something-- something that had caused to me think that it was not right that Holmes should be here. In fact, I gradually realized that I had never expected to see him again...

"We're at St. Matthew's hospital, London." He answered one of the many unspoken questions that raced through my head all at once. I could not help but be comforted somewhat by the sound of that still strident voice. "Brother dear was thoughtful enough to heed my request and have us sent to the same worthy establishment."

Still groggy, I cast an eye over my bare, hygienic surroundings. The first object that caught my eye was a phonograph in the corner, a symbol of gaiety, inconsistent with the blank hospital environment.

"Did I hear music?" It was a rather odd query for the situation, but the incredibly real sound of the Mendelssohn piece in my dream still occupied my disheveled thoughts.

"Music? So you did hear?" He seemed pleased. "I was playing a record of Mendelssohn. I thought it would quiet your nerves, as it does mine."

I nodded, letting my head fall back on the pillow, and once more stared at him. Suddenly I remembered my bewilderment upon seeing him, and struggled with my weakened capabilities to articulate it.

"I thought you dead..." I mumbled at last, trying to fight back what seemed to be the involuntary closing of my heavy eyelids.

"Easy. We can discuss that later, after you rest."

I at last gave in to the beckoning of sleep. Dimly, as from a distance, I heard him whispering, as though to himself. The last thing I was conscious of was his hand, grasping mine in what I felt to be triumph.

***

My body was still not yet satiated with rest; nevertheless I forced my eyes open. For a brief few minutes I contemplated the shadowy figure at my side in wonder. Through the dim light of the room I saw that Holmes' eyelids were half closed, as he sat reclining as best he could in a hard, straightbacked chair drawn near the bed. Within the space of a few minutes he felt my gaze, and promptly sat upright.

"I thought perhaps it was a dream again." I muttered. I attempted to shift my position in the bed to better view him and subsequently grimaced.

Holmes started.

"No dream could cause that. Is the pain severe?"

"Not much... only when I move." I replied when it had subsided.

"You are looking much better, nevertheless." He observed, gently feeling my forehead. I smiled in spite of myself at his solemn diagnosis.

"Do you know how long you have been here?"

I shook my head.

"Two weeks, I was told."

"Delirious the whole time.." I whispered, my vision still haunting me.

"Unconscious indeed, as you were found under a thick pile of rubble, with a severe concussion, abdominal injury and numerous lacerations. It was a wonder you survived, and even more of a wonder that the medics were able to pull you out."

"And a even greater one that you are really here, Holmes." It was now my hand that grasped his shoulder in final confrimation of my senses. "But how? Mycroft wired me that you were missing."

"And you consequently assumed I had, in all probability, departed?" He smiled faintly. "No, death pursued me only half heartedly, even in such a land as Palestine."

"Palestine!!"

"A mission involving complex Ottoman government activities; I won''t bother you with the details just now, as I am still bound to secrecy in any case. I was foolish enough to be pursued, then captured towards the mission's conclusion, a short distance outside of Istanbul. You see then, how I fare without the benefit of your assistance. "

He smiled while I frowned. The thought of Holmes at the mercy of merciless captors was no laughing matter for me.

"For how long were you imprisoned?"

"A month and two weeks, until shortly after Gallipolli, when Mycroft succeeded in arranging an exchange of prisoners."

The sunlight streaming through my room's solitary window had increased; and I perceived that Holmes was only clad in a robe and nightgown.

"And then you were sent here... But how were you injured?"

Before he could reply a terrible thought struck me. I had heard much about the brutality of Eastern captors, and their interrogation methods. Surely not.

Evidently my fears made themselves manifest in my face, for Holmes read my thoughts before I could speak them.

"Good old Watson! You are afraid, perhaps that I was injured by means of some ghastly torture? My own persuasive abilities and Mycroft's efforts to portray me as a harmless, rather foolish journalist saw to the prevention of that. Aside from some malnourishment and discomfort, I assure you I suffered little during my imprisonment. "

An inward sigh escaped me.

"Still, you cannot have escaped unscathed, as you were sent here from some reason..." I ventured, slightly puzzled. He lowered his head quietly, the smile vanishing.

I looked him over with a fearful eye. Aside from his extremely gaunt appearance, he seemed well and apparently uninjured.

The sunlight from my lone window had increased even more during our exchange. This, in combination with the gradual clearing of my dulled senses, made his left side visible and apparent to me for the first time.

"No.... no, not _that_." The words escaped me as a groan.

Ignoring my own pain, I reached my hand forward and grasped Holmes' left sleeve that hung, empty and dangling, by his side.


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry, it's another sad one. Blame it on reading too much of Victor Hugo when I was growing up. :P_

* * *

Being a participant of both the medical and the military life, I had seen many amputees in my time, and aided in a fair number of the dreaded procedures. Yet, at the risk of sounding cruel, those that I had seen were passing faces from the crowd. I could sympathize, commiserate, and console; but I could not genuinely claim to feel their suffering nor despair. Those emotions were reserved for those families and loved ones to whom they must now return.

Now, while staring at my friend, I realized I could now make that claim which I hoped would never be mine to make.

Firmly but gently he now pulled my hand away from his empty sleeve.

"I see the medication has worn off; Perhaps I should call the nurse."

"No, No, I..." I babbled stupidly, unable to tear my eyes away.

He shifted uneasily with a hint of annoyance.

"An arm is an appendage, a tool created to more efficiently carry out the bidding of that which controls it, the mind. Now, I have lost that tool, undeniably putting me at a greater disadvantage, but the real tragedy would have been the destruction or damage of its controller."

I could only half listen to this speech, admirably reasonable and fortuitous though it was, for other thoughts were running through my mind.

"How did it happen?"

"Infection of a bullet wound I received before imprisonment. By the time of my release, they decided it was too late."

I shuddered. Tentatively he placed a hand on my shoulder.

"It is a great shock, Watson, I admit, but it is not an insurmountable challenge..."

The poor devil, reassuring me in a time of his own crisis. I could offer no comfort to him in those first few hours. I could only think of him, locked in combat with Moriarity, boxing, playing the violin at ungodly hours of the night-- and now, as he was, no longer as I knew him, but altered for the duration of his life.

So absorbed was I in my own thoughts, that I scarcely noticed a blur of white enter the room.

"Mr. Holmes, our policy has allowed generously for visiting between patients, but it is really _most_ irregular for a patient not to make use of his own room. Dr. Watson requires his rest."

"Yes." He murmured. "Yes, I am well aware, nurse."

Quietly he removed his hand from my shoulder and left the room.

Efficiently the nurse took my vital signs and administered medication; I submitted to her ministrations, taking no notice. My eyes fixed themselves on one of the room's blank, white walls, but in my mind I was seeing Mary. Mary, as she appeared in my so incredibly, real dream, as I had seen her reclining in the grass in her blue taffeta dress.

I wondered--why had it all been taken from me, only to wake up to this ...to this world of miserable reality and anguish?

The nurse soon left. When I was sure she had gone, I wept, long and bitterly, for the three of us: for myself, for my Mary, and for Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

_Been a while since I updated! No excuse, I just haven't been in a mood to write lately. Hopefully that will change this month. Thanks for reading! _

* * *

"Nurse? Where is Mr. Holmes?"

"In his room, as he should be." She replied, her sharp tone contrasting with the gentle whiteness of her uniform. "Never have I seen such irregular goings-on...pacing in between rooms all night, talking to patients in their sleep, playing records to them at the 3 in the morning!

"He stayed here all night?"

"Never separated from your side ever since he arrived. He sat here, in this very chair". She continued. "Talking to you as gently a mother would her sick baby, sometimes he'd read to you from a book... as though you could understand. You, being out of your mind with delirium!"

"Per'aps there was some method to his madness, though..." She murmured, squinting one eye to better view the thermometer's reading, then set it down to view me with a doubtful eye.

"Well, he'll be discharged tomorrow, anyhow." She went on, abruptly rising from her chair. "I can't say I'll be sad to see him go, with all the fuss he made this last week."

"Ask him to come, please."

"I doubt he'll come. He's been sulking in his room all day with scarcely a word to anyone."

"Nurse..."

"As you wish."

Half an hour later the familiar figure appeared in the doorway of my room.

I was seldom uncomfortable or awkward with Holmes; invariably the exceptions were those times when he had lost his power of mastery. Such was the situation now.

"Come in, please, Holmes." I winced at the childlike uncertainty with which he shyly entered.

"Well, old fellow... I... the fact is, there's few people who would do what you have for me . You've been so strong... and... probably I have you to thank for my life."

"Nonsense. You were unconscious most of the time." His discomfort was all too obvious. "You pulled through on your own."

"No. I couldn't have. I had no will nor reason to pull through. I've witnessed it before: where the strength of one wills the other to live on..."

A tinge of color gathered around his high cheekbones.

"Ever the romanticist..." He muttered, a slight smile playing on his lips that seemed to shatter the remaining ice.

***

After some time of light conversation, satisfied that our gentle nurse was sufficiently occupied elsewhere, he decided on a much-needed smoke. Years of familiarity with his habits had unconsciously ingrained the simple commonplace procedure in my mind... Take out the cigarette from the case in the left breast pocket with with right hand, fill with left hand...

A frown now creased my face, suddenly realizing that this too, would never be the same for him.

Dexterously he had succeeded in removing a cigarette from the case with one hand; however, while concentrating on reaching for a match, the cigarette now slipped through his fingers to the ground.

A sharp pain struck somewhere within me, so unaccustomed was I to see him carry out even the smallest task clumsily.

Without a word he took out another one, his silence and averted eyes all too clearly marking his embarassment. Raising his head, his eyes scanned my face, and I knew they must read the expression that was written there.

Hesitantly I extended my hand, reached into his pocket for a match and struck it, holding it up to him in a manner that was neither steady nor confident.

He grasped my hand to the cigarette's tip to steady the flame.

"Thanks, old fellow." He exhaled through the smoke, in a voice that was as unsteady as my hand, but was, nevertheless, Holmes.


End file.
